Sunday, January 31, 2010


Sensuality and sinister foreboding-
sensations, almost audible
through bone and blood.

Cracking and creaking,
each rib snapping into a new position
protecting and steadily compressing
that which lays inside.

Amidst all the real and imagined horror
the beating thing and it's metaphorical spot
in your mind
hurt more than bone splintering
and flesh peeling-

they call it the blues
they call it loss
they call it heartbreak.

No riff from scarred hands
can wipe away the cold sweat
that washes over in the middle
of a hot, summers night.

Sitting in a dirty, humid kitchen
knuckles white, gripping a cool glass
of foggy lemonade
swallowing greedily ice an all
deep into your soul
but only citrus steam forms
on the back of your eyeballs.

It's not for you to cure
or fight off-

close your eyes

let the deathly hands of grief
drag you into the wave
out with the tide

That same beating thing
protected by shattered bone
and raw flesh
will bring you back to dry land-


1 comment:

Gerry Boyd said...

Your measured control of language really makes this shine. The very edge of constraint. Nice.